Poetry Here (Mostly)

Shear Disaster


Trees

I woke to aromatic scent

still scolding my garden clothes,

a dress-up outfit I had worn

like a kid who pretends to be

a doctor, a sailor, a pilot,

a firefighter, or just grownup.

 

Yesterday, I clipped the rosemary

that looked to be related

to Rapunzel and Diana Ross.

At first I styled with caution,

then, crazily, I cut random stalks,

piles of fragrant fringes fell.

 

An over-zealous barber,

I felt compelled to keep cropping.

Bush parted in an Alfalfa do.

Poor topiary Little Rascal,

its stubborn points of cowlick

still try to stand up to my mischief.

 

Blameless bush do not despair,

for folklore prizes your memory.

You can repair if you recall

that grand old-style impression,

so symmetrical and profuse,

like a Jackie Kennedy bouffant.

 

 

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